


consign me not to darkness

by Whitefox



Category: Black Sails
Genre: 4x10, Dead!Thomas AU, Flint the parrot, M/M, Silver monologues a LOT, Vane the cat, but it works for him, finale fix-it attempt, flint is 9 parts rage 1 part hopeless sap, madi deserves better, now with bonus treasure island epilogue, psychoanalyzing each other as a bonding exercise, silver-madi mentioned but downplayed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitefox/pseuds/Whitefox
Summary: Thomas is not on the plantation.  Silver must find different leverage to convince Flint to abandon his war, but perhaps that lost love is not the only one that can motivate Flint, not anymore.4x10 divergent, dead!Thomas AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This show came out of nowhere and swallowed me up, chewed on me a bit, and then spat me out all in the space of about a week-long binge (highly inadvisable, if you were wondering) and now I have a ton of complicated finale feelings to work out. Thanks, gay pirates.
> 
> I wrestled with this for a while and I’m still not too sure about it, but hopefully it helps some other latecomers through the finale pain!
> 
> Title is from “Broken Crown”, Mumford & Sons.

 

*

 

“We won’t be going any farther.”

Something in Silver’s chest twists to hear those words, even if he’s not surprised.  He doesn’t want to be here, in this moment, doing this, having this conversation.  He desperately does not want this to be the end of their journey together, but that feeling is matched in intensity only by how desperately he does not want to take another step further along this path of theirs that seems to lead inescapably to ruin.  He feels stretched thin, pulled in so many different directions by people he loves and the causes they love and his own heart and its wounds that he’s surprised he can function at all, can pick a direction and still walk without toppling.  But at the center of this web of obligations and loyalties and loves is a cold, hard knot of pain and fear lodged underneath his breastbone that pulses _enough, enough, enough_ with each beat of his heart.  And the harder the lines tug, the tighter that knot twists and the stronger that echo becomes.

_Enough of this war._

“Won’t we,” Silver says, just to delay.  He doesn’t bother to make it sound like a question.

The first confrontation he’d had with Flint in this jungle had not gone as Silver had expected.  Not that he’d been in any state at the time to plan too far ahead, or think especially rationally about anything.  The way he’d thrown himself at Flint, sword in hand, had proven that much; even Silver wasn’t sure exactly what he’d been trying to accomplish there, just that he was angry and needed an outlet and attacking Flint was… _safe_.  He couldn’t defeat Flint, he knew that very well, but Flint would also never hurt him.  Ever.

He hadn’t been sure of that moments before.  To the extent that he’d thought about it, he’d assumed that Flint had turned on him entirely, that he’d now been sorted into the same category as Gates in the captain’s mind, someone he’d once cared for but who had now become an obstacle and would be removed without hesitation if necessary.  That assumption had allowed him to send the men after Flint, despite knowing that while they probably wouldn’t be able to touch the man, there was a _chance_.  He had sent them, and there had been a chance that they would succeed, and Silver would have had to live with that.  Assuming that Flint saw him as an enemy made that easier.

But then he was there, with Flint, and there was a gunshot, and as Silver whipped around to see Dooley falling to ground, that assumption had shattered and his whole worldview shifted sideways with it.

In that moment, he realized he’d been seeing this all wrong.  That maybe it had been a mistake to group Gates in with the list of people who’d died from getting too close to Flint.  Gates hadn’t died because he’d been too close to Flint. 

Gates had died because he hadn’t been close _enough_.

It was too big an idea to grasp all at once, in a moment that was already so chaotic and emotionally fraught.  He would find time for that later.  Right then he was still angry, and abruptly aware of his own invulnerability when it came to this monstrous legend among men, and so he drew his sword and charged.

The moment their blades clashed, Silver was ensnared by the familiarity of it.  He tried to use his anger to lash out, move unpredictably and break the pattern their bodies had learned together, but Flint would just knock him safely back in line with an expert parry and then fall back on the defensive, always leaving Silver the option to withdraw.  Silver’s rage flared at being handled so easily, but beneath that, there had been gratitude too.  Flint was allowing him this safe space to let his anger burn out, and on some level Silver had been aware that was exactly what he needed.

_I will see you through this.  I swear it._

And then they’d heard the shots on the water, and had wordlessly pushed the personal conflict aside for more pressing concerns.

“I won’t take another step towards that chest until I know for sure that I am wrong about what I suspect is happening here,” Flint says now.

Silver doesn’t bother to dissemble.  He hasn’t been looking forward to this conversation, but he has been preparing for it.  He hops around Flint – crutch, step, crutch, step – and turns to face him.

“Rackham has made a deal with the Guthries,” he says.   

Flint’s expression hardens immediately.  “Eleanor and Richard Guthrie are dead.”

“The elder Guthries,” Silver specifies.  “Eleanor’s grandparents.  Richard’s parents as well I suppose, although that seems less relevant.”

“And what did they promise him,” Flint growls, more a threat than a question, “in return for his betrayal?”

“Nassau.  Of course.”  Silver hops a step closer, as if increased proximity to Flint will somehow contain his fury.  Even knowing he has nothing personally to fear from this man, the tension in the air between them feels deadly. Just as Flint has proven he will never kill Silver, nor allow him to be killed, so Silver will allow no harm to come to Flint.  He has always tried to match the level of regard his captain has shown him, let Flint set the high watermark and allowed the disturbingly bottomless seas of his own affections to rise that far and no farther.  But there are many other ways this conversation could end that would hurt just as much.

In planning his approach to this conversation, Silver had realized that on some level he had never really trusted his captain.  Not entirely.  Flint was his friend, his partner, the one person in the whole world who was closest to him, but there had been an element of manipulation in their relationship from the moment Silver stole the Urca’s schedule.  He hadn’t always been conscious of what he was doing, but the survivor in Silver had always known to be wary of the tyrant in Flint.  The spectre of Gates had hovered always in the back of his mind, driving his efforts to weasel closer, to insinuate himself into Flint’s weaknesses and win his respect.  Warding off that fear for good had only been possible when he’d realized that he’d accumulated power enough to match Flint’s, if not exceed it.  But that wasn’t trust; that was a deterrent to war.  Mutually assured destruction if either were to act against the other.  And even so, the thought of Flint turning on him in that way, of seeing the betrayal and deadly intent in his partner’s eyes even if he knew he could survive it…well, if he was honest, Silver feared the pain of that just as much.  And the tension of that fear had always made their relationship uneasy, as if they balanced perpetually on a razor’s edge.

Now, though.  Now he sees things differently.  Gates was not part of the pattern.  Thomas and Miranda had never had reason to fear death by Flint, and judging by recent events, neither does Silver.  He is in more illustrious company than he’d guessed, and knowing that changes everything. 

“A Nassau under colonial rule,” Flint growls.  He sounds distinctly unimpressed.

“Only officially.”

Flint scoffs, but doesn’t press for details.  Silver’s not surprised.  He would’ve considered it a very good sign indeed if Flint had wanted to know more, but of course the details don’t matter to Flint.  No details of any plan would matter to Flint if he detected even a whiff of concession to or subjugation by the British.

“And you?  Did you…” and here Flint pauses to snarl, lip curling up from his teeth like a wolf warning of an impending attack, eyes never wavering from Silver’s, “… _agree_ to this deal?”

Silver hesitates, but only for a moment.  “Rackham asked me to kill you.” 

The effects of that sentence on Flint are horrifying.  Silver’s stomach swoops with dread and guilt as he watches Flint’s face contort in rage, pain, and something like desperate disbelief.  His hand drifts down to his cutlass hilt but he doesn’t draw it, and although his teeth are fully bared now and his whole body seems primed to spring forward at any moment to slit Silver’s throat, his eyes are wide and wounded.  Vulnerable.

Silver lets out a slow, quiet breath.  In the silence, he continues.

“Apparently, your removal is the proof the Guthries need to believe that Nassau is a sound investment.  They seem to think the dread Captain Flint will pose too persistent and irreconcilable a danger to their efforts if not dealt with in a very final way.  Why they didn’t make a similar ultimatum over Long John Silver I don’t know, but I suppose your reputation continues to proceed mine, for the time being.  Congratulations on that, by the way.”

Flint still does not move or speak.  The rage and pain in his eyes burn like dark suns, and Silver can’t bear to look at them any longer.  He has no doubt that if he were anyone else, he would be well on his way towards bleeding out on the forest floor by now.  Slowly, almost painfully so, Silver draws his sword.  He hears the answering hiss as Flint finally draws his own, but keeps his eyes on the ground. 

Silver tosses the sword away.

Flint doesn’t move.

In the echoing, oppressive silence, Silver pulls out his pistol and tosses it in the same direction.  The weight of it carries it farther, and they both listen as it crashes through the underbrush and drops into a small gully with a splash.  Silver winces at that; the weapon hadn’t been cheap.  That was a significantly bigger gesture than he’d intended to make. Warily, he peers up at his captain.

“I think we’re a bit beyond all that,” Silver says, hushed but confident Flint will hear him.  “Don’t you?”

Flint is still staring straight at him, eyes fearlessly meeting his own when Silver gives him the chance.  Silver doesn’t think the man has ever backed down from eye contact in his life; it’s one of the things that makes him such an incredibly effective leader, the ability to demand a man’s attention and hold it, make him feel like you’re looking straight through to his very soul and grabbing it, bending it to your will.  It’s an ability Silver also knows how to exploit, of course, but he’s always been more comfortable with its subtleties: knowing when to catch a man’s eye and hold it for a critical heartbeat, just long enough here and there to inspire trust.  Flint’s technique requires too much honesty for Silver’s tastes; the baring of your own soul in return for the ability to command another’s is a bargain that Silver’s never been comfortable making.  He’s always had too many secrets for that.

But even so, he meets Flint’s gaze steadily now because they are beyond this, too.  Honesty and openness is no great sacrifice with someone who already knows all of his secrets worth knowing.

And besides, in this moment, Flint’s bargain is backfiring more than anything.  The pain in his eyes still stabs at Silver with more than a glancing blow, but there’s still vulnerability there too, and something that seems almost…lost.

“Then tell me,” Flint says, hoarsely.  “What is happening here?”

Silver hops a step closer, carefully watching the way Flint’s expression flickers as he nears.  “I’m trying to show you another way.”

Flint seems to shut down at that, and Silver feels his heart lurch sickeningly.  He is keenly aware that Flint is still holding his sword in a white-knuckled grip.

“After all we’ve done,” Flint spits, eyes hard like shards of green ice, “after all we’ve accomplished together, all we’ve sacrificed, now when we’re _so close_ —”

He’s picking up speed, gaining volume and momentum and Silver can’t allow that.  He can’t let him fire himself up with one of his impassioned speeches; that is not the direction this conversation must go.  He hops another step closer, keeping his own expression carefully open and honest and almost pleading, and watches the motion ripple through Flint, bring him to a startled pause.  Silver makes the most of the momentary silence.

“You love me,” he says, hushed, letting his own naked awe at the revelation shine through.  Flint’s eyes widen, and the violent light in them is shrouded over by shock.  It’s possible Silver is making a very big mistake, but he’s committed to his course now.    “I know you do.  I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to think of it, but now that I have it’s so clear.  You don’t even try to hide it.”  Silver pauses, swallows hard.  The anger is returning in Flint’s eyes, but Silver thinks the new tension in his jaw speaks of fear, too.  And he’s still not denying it.  

“You let the world see you as a villain, but I know you,” Silver presses.  “I _see_ you.  I know what drives you, and I know how boundless your heart is, how deeply you feel.  I don’t know if you…I don’t know if I could be enough for you.  I doubt I can be what _they_ were to you.  I’m not a good person, not like they were.  Before I got swept up in all this, in you, I never cared much about other people.  I think that was pretty obvious.”  Silver risks a grin, just a little, but enough to hopefully call back to that idiot in the blue jacket.  Flint’s expression still looks frozen.  “I know you were hurt that I didn’t want to tell you about my past, that you saw it as my way of keeping an advantage over you, but that’s not it at all.  Who I was back then…I’ve made up so many stories it’s hard for even I to be sure of what’s true.  And I’ve changed, _you’ve_ changed me so much that who I used to be isn’t relevant anymore.  I’m not like you; I don’t carry my past with me like an albatross around my neck.  I’ll tell you what I remember one day, if you still truly want to know, but the me that matters is your partner, the one who found you in your darkness and made himself your equal.  That’s who I want to be, who I _choose_ to be.  That’s the history I choose to remember.  And I think that’s who you need now, more than someone who is good.”  Silver pauses, licks his lips.  “I think we could make a life together, a _real_ life.  I’d like to try.”

Flint looks…Silver’s not quite sure.  Angry, maybe.  Confused, definitely.  But he’s not foaming at the mouth about the evils of the British Empire, nor is he hauling off and shooting Silver on the spot, and that’s the main thing.

Silver hops a step closer.  He’s almost close enough to touch now.

“We will have Nassau,” he says, softly like a promise and an attempted seduction all together, and has no idea how well it goes over.  He can only keep pressing forward blindly, in hope.  “Under another’s name, yes, but make no mistake, _we_ will have it.  The legends of Long John Silver and the dread Captain Flint will not die that easily.  Piracy, _freedom_ , will not die that easily.  We don’t have to wage an endless, doomed war to ensure that.  We need only stand guard.  If Rackham ever loses his head and they start persecuting people in Nassau Town for who they love, you _know_ I will be right by your side to remind them why they should _fucking_ fear us.” 

Silver hops a step closer, and now they are practically breathing the same air.  Flint’s face is still unreadable, but Silver thinks he see something new there, some fire banked for the moment but flaring.  He takes that as a good sign and hopes it’s something other than anger.

“And we will have each other,” Silver breathes, and he’s sure Flint feels the warmth from his words.  “I find that’s all I really want anymore.”

“And Madi?” Flint growls, his first words in what feels like an age.  Oh, he is definitely still angry.  “She won’t forgive this.”

“I know,” Silver sighs.  “This war is different for her and her people.  I don’t think we can ever truly understand how much it means to them, not even you with your crusade.  But Rackham has promised to continue to supply her people, and offer safe harbour in Nassau for those who wish it.  The plantation owners have already been driven out or killed, and Rackham is looking to place former slaves in charge of new production. There will be no slaves on the island anymore.  I know she had begun to dream of something more, with all your talk of a grand revolution, but once this would have been enough for her.  Maybe one day it will again, but if not then she will at least be alive to hate me for it.”

“And what about me?  What if I hate you for it?”

“You can’t,” Silver says, almost apologetic.  He leans in a fraction of an inch closer and carefully, ever so softly, rests his palm over Flint’s jaw.  The muscles skitter under his hand, but Flint doesn’t pull away.  “Just as I could never hate you.  We are too much a part of each other for that.”  Silver dares a small caress with his thumb and Flint’s eyes drift partway closed.  He’s still tense as a main mast in a strong wind, but Silver’s becoming more confident that this particular wind is blowing in his favour. 

“I can’t lose you,” Silver’s voice cracks on the last word, the brutal honesty harder to admit than anything else he’s said so far, “and you can’t survive this war.  I don’t see any other way this ends.  So I’m asking you. You started this war for Thomas.  For love.  Will you walk away from it for me?”

There is a long, frozen moment while they stare at each other.  Silver has no idea what his own expression is doing for once, but Flint’s eyes contain a tempest.  Looking into its heart is dizzying, like he’s trapped in the crow’s nest with a storm on the bow and no choice but to cling fast and hope he can ride it out.  The tension grows thicker between them with every heartbeat, and fear raises goosebumps on Silver’s arms.  And then—

Flint kisses him.

Silver crumples, completely unprepared for the ferocity of it.  It is more a violent assault than a kiss, and were it not for Flint’s sudden vice-like grip on his biceps, it would have sent them both straight to the ground.  Even so, it sends him reeling back until one of Flint’s hands creeps up to the back of his head, weaving into his hair to better hold him in place.  For his part, Silver manages a clinging grip on his partner’s shoulder, only dimly aware that at some point his crutch must have joined Flint’s cutlass on the forest floor, while his other hand scrabbles uselessly at Flint’s bare head, not for the first time cursing his lack of hair.  The hand comes to rest on the back of Flint’s neck instead, and his captain gives a growl of approval.

Silver is—lost.  He’d expected this…seduction…to go according to his own terms: he the one always pushing, Flint the one accepting, or perhaps fleeing.  Now he’s reduced to reacting on instinct, completely swept away by the gale that is Flint.  He should have guessed; he’d backed Flint into a corner, demanded he make a decision, and Flint had made it with the same massive amounts of violent emotion with which he seemed to confront all major life events.  Nothing about this should have been surprising.

Flint kisses to conquer; to devour; to lose himself in Silver as though if he tries hard enough he can crawl inside to share Silver’s skin and slough off all the baggage James McGraw carries with him, as if that would finally let him slip the albatrosses from his neck.  Silver hopes that’s true.  But there’s only so long he can let himself be bowled over, and he feels something waking inside his breast, some answering darkness that snarls and starts to push back against Flint’s.  His blood is roaring in his ears and his entire being is focused on the man in front of him and he feels like he has two legs again, he feels alive and desired and powerful and _free_.

When they finally break apart, they are both panting and Flint—Flint is glaring at him.

Silver can’t help it; he bursts out laughing.

“You little _shit_ ,” Flint snarls, nothing at all like an endearment.  Silver laughs harder, nearly doubling over while still clinging to Flint's shoulder for balance.

He suspects his relief might be making him slightly hysterical.

“I swear to _God_ , if you do not stop laughing this instant—”

“I can’t,” Silver gasps out between the laughter, “You are—such—an _angry_ bastard—”

Flint cuts him off by jerking his head up and pressing their lips together once more.  Silver feels the giggles bubbling up again in the back of his throat but the tenderness of this kiss, once he registers it, quickly sobers him.  It’s like night and day to the previous kiss; where the first was fire and desperation and challenge, this one is water, gentle and generous.  Silver can _feel_ the love in it.  He’s momentarily staggered by the depth of the emotion, but just as with the first, he rallies and tries to convey as much love back as he receives.  He’s not at all surprised that Flint is capable of both extremes, even in such close succession.

When they break this time, both of them are breathing evenly and they remain close, sharing air. 

“I see I should have believed you,” Flint breathes, eyes clear without a hint of resentment or even anger.  “When you said you’d be my end.”

Silver quirks a small smile.  “You should always believe me,” he says, just to hear Flint’s disgusted scoff.  He leans in, resting their foreheads together.  “You are everything to me, James.  _Everything_.  Say you’ll let us have this.  Say you’ll walk away with me.  Please.”

In a rare show of something like acceptance, Flint closes his eyes.  Silver waits, filled with endless patience in this moment.  He feels none of the tension or uncertainty of before; he knows the answer he’s going to get.  And he will wait however long it takes – an hour, a day, a _year_ – for Flint to say it aloud.

“Yes,” Flint says, and Silver kisses him to seal the promise.

Captain Flint is dead.  Their new lives are just beginning.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver and Flint return to Jack's ship and talk some more. Jack isn't pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo...turns out I'm not done here? Have some more overly intense conversations xD
> 
> This follows almost directly after the first part, and that felt fairly Flint-focused so this one is Silver's turn. I do have plans for a third part, and it will be fluffy and funny like this one was supposed to be but failed at so utterly I'm ashamed to be associated with it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

*

 

“Uhh,” Jack Rackham says.

Silver grins, and then grins even wider at how the sight of him smiling seems to inspire such alarm in Jack.  He needs to smile more, he thinks, which is convenient given he feels more like smiling now than he has in recent memory.

They are on the deck of the _Revenge_ , and the day is edging towards twilight.  Silver suspects the dim light might be the only reason Jack hadn’t sunk their boat on approach with Flint still alive and no treasure to be seen (Flint hadn’t offered to show Silver the location, and Silver hadn’t asked; if it was a test, it was a poor one, since even if Silver had given a rat’s ass about the gold at this point, he figured that by tying his fate to Flint’s he was bound to see it again someday anyway) but then again, Flint’s shaved head practically glows even in low light, so perhaps Rackham’s curiosity had just gotten the better of him.

Rackham leans toward Silver, furtively, as if there’s any way to shield what he’s saying from Flint when he’s standing so close to Silver’s side there’s no daylight between them.  “Perhaps we could…speak privately for a moment…?”

Still grinning, Silver says, “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of him.  We’re partners, Jack, or hadn’t you heard?”

“Right,” Jack says, shiftily, clearly trying and failing to put together the scene in front of him in a way that makes sense.  “Right, well, I can’t help but notice that one of the two of you is looking rather more…ah, _alive_ than I had been led to expect.”

Silver’s honestly impressed; he didn’t think Rackham had the nerve to be so blunt about it.  At his side, Flint growls and steps forward, getting into Jack’s space and looming over him.  Jack gulps and looks clearly terrified, but to his credit he holds his ground.  Silver wonders if he’s been underestimating him.

“You’re looking a damn sight more alive than I’d prefer as well,” Flint snarls, teeth bared and eyes crackling.  “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you the moment I cleared the rail, you fucking turncoat.”

Apparently deciding he’d made enough of a stand for himself, Jack leans back over the rail where Flint had caged him and edges out of the other Captain’s space like a cat picking its way out of a thorn bush.  Flint watches him with a burning glare but doesn’t stop him.

“Be that as it may,” Jack says, now at a safer distance, “there are certain parties involved who will not be happy with the current state of affairs, and I dare say they might be immune to even Mr. Silver’s charm.  What exactly do you suggest I tell them?  Since you haven’t shot me, as you so kindly pointed out, I assume your plan isn’t to take over my ship and use it to continue your hopeless war against civilization.”

Flint twitches alarmingly in what Silver can only assume is an aborted lunge, and he takes a moment to wish Rackham had just a little less nerve.

“Tell them what we agreed,” Silver says as evenly as he can.  “Captain Flint is dead.”

Jack’s gaze flicks from him to Flint, who’s still glaring at him with murder in his eyes, and back to Silver.  “I don’t mean to doubt your legendary powers of persuasion, but it seems the evidence would tend to disagree with you there.”

“Oh, Jack,” Silver says, grinning again.  “You have to stop taking things so _literally._ ”  He steps up to resume a united front with his captain, and rests a hand lightly on Flint’s elbow just in case.  It would be quite inconvenient if Rackham were to die here after all of Silver’s efforts, and Flint still has both pistols and cutlass, unlike Silver.  He can feel the tension in Flint, but his partner allows the touch.  “As far as the Guthries are concerned, the problem represented by Captain Flint is gone.  He might as well be dead to them, and as far as anyone else knows, he will be.  Unless, of course, you and Max violate our terms.”

“Your terms,” Jack repeats, flatly.  Flint is grinning now too, a vicious shark’s smile.

“Indeed.  Did you really think we would just step aside, cede Nassau to you without a struggle?  No, Jack.  I admit I don’t understand how exactly you were imagining you could remove the Captain here on your own, without then forfeiting your life to me at the very least, but it’s undeniable the current situation is the best possible outcome for you, and through no effort of your own.  I would say that places you rather in our debt, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rackham is watching him with narrowed eyes.  “You really have become fucking terrifying, you know.  It’s like watching a magic trick.”

Silver gives a short, smiling bow.  “Why thank you, Jack.  Losing a limb does wonders, you really should try it.”

“I could help with that,” Flint chimes in.  Rackham hunches his shoulders, looking hunted.

“While I’m sure you’re only trying to help, out of the goodness of your very black hearts, I do believe I will pass on that offer.  Let’s say there is a debt to be paid.  Did we not already come to an agreement concerning the slave populations?”

“We did,” Silver agrees easily.  “But that is only a facet of the free society we wish to see preserved in Nassau.  And you’re a pirate, Jack, who’s just shown yet again how easily his loyalties will follow wherever the wind of opportunity blows.  So.  Let this be your warning.  Captain Flint may be dead, but Long John Silver is still very much alive, and he will be watching.  If he has cause to send out a black spot, and that warning goes unheeded…well, that might anger him enough to call his partner forth from the grave.  Am I understood?”

Jack looks almost petulant.  “Just killing him would be so much simpler.”

“Well, you could try.  But you’d have to go through me first, and good luck finding anyone willing to help you take on a living legend.  And then, of course, there’s him.  Fancy your chances against the most feared pirate captain in the West Indies?”  At his side, Flint leans into him just enough for Silver to feel the press of his shoulder.  Silver doesn’t look away from Rackham but returns the pressure, cherishing the warmth that spreads through him from the gesture of solidarity.

There is only one irreplaceable thing in his life now, in their _shared_ life, and there would be no more impossible choices.

Flint grins at Rackham, showing more teeth.  Jack shrinks away.

“I see your point,” Jack grumbles.  Abruptly he straightens and continues in a louder voice: “And I would like it known, for the record, that beyond wishing to avoid the risks incurred to me personally in having you alive, I do not actually want either of you dead.  It was a condition they insisted upon, you understand.  We did try to talk them out of it.”

“You’re a traitorous fuck, Jack.”

Jack sighs at Flint.  “Yes, quite.”

Silver fights off a smile. “We are agreed then?”

Jack gives them both a tired, resigned look.  “Yes, all right.  Not that I have much of a choice.  I do hope that you will be reasonable in your…unspecified but ominous future demands and remember that it is in all of our best interests to keep the Guthries satisfied and very very far away.”

 

Silver smiles beatifically.  “And as long as that remains in _our_ interest, we most assuredly will.”

Jack looks pained but seems to realize he’s not going to get a better answer.  “Lovely.  Now, please tell me where I can drop you off and get you the fuck off my ship.  I am very tired, I miss Anne, and I would very much like to be able to sleep without worrying that one of the two of you is going to stab me the moment I close my eyes on my own fucking ship.”

“I wouldn’t kill you in your sleep,” Flint says, sounding genuinely insulted.  The implication that he would be only too happy to kill him in broad daylight goes without saying.

“Maybe not, but would you really put it past your friend here?  Once a sneaky thief…”

Silver clears his throat.  “Nassau will be fine,” he says with a questioning glance at Flint to confirm.  “A coast, not the main port.  There are some things we need from the house, we’ll figure it out from there.”  It’s a guess; Silver doesn’t actually know if there’s anything in the house Flint would want to retrieve, but with the Walrus sunk it seems a safe bet.  And it’s as good as anywhere else to hole up for a while and come up with a plan.

Jack probably says something in return but Silver doesn’t hear it, because Flint had caught and held his eyes when he’d glanced at him and is now turning and stepping close into his space, an intense look in his eyes that Silver recognizes from Skeleton Island.  He reaches out to weave a hand through Silver’s curls, leans in slightly and then…stops.  The glint of challenge in his eyes is unmistakable, and Silver realizes this is another test of sorts.

Dusk has settled in properly now, casting them mostly in shadow, and with no course set and no one currently trying to kill them, most of the crew are below decks anyway.  Rackham alone isn’t much of an audience, but Silver thinks he understands all the same.  As far as he knows, Flint has never been able to be totally open with a partner; being indiscreet had ended in tragedy for him once already, and even Miranda had been largely hidden away from eyes that wouldn’t understand.  But now, with Silver, it’s different.  Silver had demanded Flint give up his war for this, and Flint seems to feel justified in demanding everything from this in return.  Which suits Silver perfectly well; shame is not an emotion that comes easily to him, and the proof of Flint _wanting_ these things from him warms some parts of his heart that have only ever been cold.

Silver gives an easy smile, making sure Flint sees how little this costs him, and leans into the kiss with the curve of it still on his lips.

Rackham makes a startled sound, which they both ignore.  The kiss is short and chaste but unmistakably possessive, and when they pull back Flint is grinning, sharp and pleased.  And then without a word or a single glance at Rackham, he releases Silver and stalks off in the direction of the captain’s cabin.  That he is not in fact the captain of this particular ship (or any ship at all at this moment, Silver realizes with some vertigo) does not seem to trouble him.  Jack will just have to find somewhere else to sleep, Silver supposes.

“You…” Jack is spluttering, Silver realizes finally, and probably has been for some time.  “Really?”

Silver just grins, sharp-edged enough to match Flint but he can’t help something genuinely joyous slipping through as well.  Jack’s eyes widen.  He opens his mouth but Silver already knows he doesn’t want to answer whatever question is imminent, so he turns his back on Jack with a wave and follows his captain.

“That explains a lot, you know!” Jack calls after him. 

Silver slips into the captain’s cabin without knocking, and for a moment doesn’t see Flint at all. His heart has just enough time to give a startled lurch before his eyes settle on the quiet figure in the corner of the room, crouched down in front of what appears to be a small bookcase.  With a huff of exasperated fondness, Silver totters straight to the bed instead, which is happily quite a bit bigger than Flint’s on the _Walrus_ , and tries not to dwell on the way that Flint’s presence seems smaller somehow than he’s used to. 

“Anything good?” Silver asks, wrestling with his boot.

Flint hums, and then, with a note of surprise, “ _One Thousand and One Nights._ ” 

“Huh.  Blackbeard had hidden depths?”

“Perhaps.  Or it’s just Rackham’s.”

“That’s more likely,” Silver agrees.  “Captain, don’t tell me you have the energy to actually _read_ anything right now.  I feel like I could sleep for about a year.”

“Have you read it?”

Silver is seized by a powerful urge to laugh once again at the utter ridiculousness of this man who’d become his partner, who could go from ferocious to tender in an instant, and now wants to discuss books when not even hours ago they’d been flaying each other open emotionally and turning both their worlds upside down.  Silver can barely keep his own eyes open.  “No, I haven’t fucking read it.  Will you get over here?”

Flint comes, but brings the book.  Silver kicks his boot away and flops down on to the bed, shifting over to give Flint space.  When Flint places the book on Silver’s chest instead of immediately taking the offered spot, Silver rolls his eyes towards the cabin’s ceiling in a silent plea for patience. 

“You should,” Flint tells him, soft and earnest.  Silver catches the look in his eyes and forgets to be annoyed.  “It’s a story for a storyteller.”

For a moment, Silver’s mind goes perfectly blank.  It’s the quiet of the room, or Flint’s closeness, or his own emotional exhaustion – but the pure thoughtfulness of the sentiment stuns him.  He’d thought he knew Captain Flint, and he _does_ , but this quiet, open man before him will take some getting used to.  Especially when all that softness is focused so intensely on himself.

“This may surprise you,” he admits slowly, “but I’ve never been much of a reader.  More for lack of opportunity than interest, I suppose, but tales from the epics don’t get you very far when you need to convince a crowd of your story’s veracity.  I’ve always found it simpler to steal the mundane directly from the source, as it were, and embellish as needed.”  Silver pauses, thumbing the cover of the small black leather-bound book.  “I should like to read more, I think.”

“Then we will,” Flint says. 

The man still makes no move to lie down, seeming content to sit on the edge of the bed and just watch Silver.  After a few minutes of this, Flint staring and Silver trying his best not to squirm like a pinned insect, Silver groans and sits up, the book tumbling down to his lap.

“You have blood on your face,” he informs Flint.  “If you have enough energy to stare at me, you have enough to go find some water so I can clean it off.”

Flint doesn’t say anything, but the left side of his mouth ticks up as if he’s just noticing the tacky feel of the blood still matted in his moustache, and an expression of disdain surfaces on his face.  

“Go,” Silver pushes, trying not to smile.  “There’s bound to be a bucket and rag about somewhere.  Shoo.”

With a very speaking look that tells Silver in no uncertain terms that he is _choosing_ to tolerate the order as an indulgence, Flint goes.  He must take part of Silver with him, because when the door clicks closed, Silver’s endlessly buzzing mind seems to shut down as well.  He falls back on the bed with a thump, after sliding the book to safety underneath the bed, and stares blankly at the ceiling of the cabin for as long as it takes Flint to return.  He has no sense of the elapsed time, but the next thing he knows, Flint is sitting back down on the edge of the bed and there is a bucket of water at his feet.

Silver sits up gingerly and reaches for the rag hanging off the edge of the bucket.  They should probably do this somewhere else, he thinks distantly, somewhere less likely to end with a soaking bed, but he finds he just doesn’t care enough to move.  He dunks the rag, wrings out most of the water, and gently starts on the edges of the blood smear on the side of Flint’s head.  Flint closes his eyes and just…lets him.

It should feel weird, Silver thinks, to be this close to his Captain.  They’ve never done anything like this before, and it feels more intimate, somehow, than a kiss.  But it doesn’t feel weird.  It feels natural, almost comfortable, in a way that Silver has never before associated with Flint.  Their relationship has always been volatile, unstable somehow, in the way of two dark and damaged people trying to let something precious but oh so fragile grow between them, like a single flower sprouting on a barren mountainside where the slightest misstep could cause an avalanche that would bury the new growth in the dust.  But now, something’s different.  Something’s shifted.  The uncertainty is gone, like the totality of their relationship has finally been brought fully into the light and Silver’s no longer guessing blindly at the shape of the edges.  He’s surer of his footing now, and the growing thing has revealed roots deeper than he’d expected.  In the quiet of someone else’s cabin, aching and exhausted down to his bones, Silver feels the warmth of Flint’s skin and simply feels safe.

But there _is_ blood on Flint, and Silver knows it’s his fault, this time.  So often Flint is covered in blood, but so rarely is it his own, and Silver is the one to blame.

The words come without any conscious intention to speak.

“I’m sorry.  For—” he gestures vaguely with the hand not holding the rag, trying to include Flint’s entire state of being, the cabin they’re in that’s not their own, the state of the world in general, “—everything.  I can’t remember if I said that.  I meant to.”

Flint doesn’t bother to open his eyes.  “But you don’t regret it,” he rumbles.  Silver can feel the words vibrating through Flint’s skull into the cloth in his hand.  He dips it again in the bucket and watches as blood blooms in swirling eddies through the clear water.

“I regret some things.”  Silver waits, holding the dripping rag, until Flint reluctantly opens his eyes.  This is important, for some reason, and he wants to be sure Flint is listening.  “I regret not trusting you.  I thought I did, I tried to, but…I let things get in the way.  I won’t make that mistake again, I swear it.  But if you mean what got us here…I don’t regret that you’re here with me now instead of being shot at somewhere or hanged.  I won’t ever regret that.  But I am sorry for what you’ve lost.  Genuinely.  I never wanted to be the end of Captain Flint.”

Flint _snorts_ and actually _closes his eyes_ again, leaning his head back against one of the taut, cloth-wrapped chains holding up the bed.  Silver is speechless with shock and outrage.

“And people call _me_ dramatic,” Flint says.  “You talk like I had no choice in the matter, but give me some credit.  I know myself.  I could see where this was heading for me long before your little fireside warning, and believe me, I could have stopped it had I chosen to.  I didn’t, but that says more about me than it does about you.  You’re not that irresistible.  And besides, you’re still lying.”

Somehow, Silver finds his tongue.  “I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are,” Flint says, still sounding maddeningly unconcerned.  “What are all these repeated hints about being my end, if not a form of gloating?  Maybe you never wanted to kill me, that I can believe, but to be the one to finally take down the fearsome Captain Flint, in some form?  And best of all, without firing a shot?  Why, that’s even more impressive.  Of course you like the idea of that.”

“I never wished you harm,” Silver grits out, rather impressed with himself for not trying to strangle Flint yet.  That he can’t seem to mount a better defense only adds to his anger.

“No,” Flint agrees easily, “it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it?  However sorry you may be, you still see this as a victory.  Because we are both alive and safe, yes, but also because you have demonstrated your dominance over every other influence in my life, even the shadow of Thomas.”  Flint finally opens his eyes now, and Silver had thought he wanted that, but he finds he’s completely unprepared for the piercing way Flint is looking at him now, like all the illusions Silver’s spent his life spinning and perfecting count for nothing at all, and there’s only John, small and malformed.  “I walked away from it all for you.  Willingly.  Everything I had created for his memory, the man I’ve been for a decade – did you know that Miranda asked me to leave as well, and I wouldn’t go?  Gates, too, and I killed him for it.  But Long John Silver has succeeded where all others failed.  The legend continues to grow.”

Silver is angry.  Truly angry, in no small part because he knows that some – too much – of what Flint has said is true.  He doesn’t want to hear it, especially from Flint, because if he knows these things, truly _believes_ them, why in the world would he stay?  Why would he put up with a snake like Silver?  Why would he allow him anywhere near him?

He doesn’t understand how Flint can still be so calm.

“Fuck you,” Silver snarls like a cornered animal, bloody water gushing down into the bucket as his fist tightens around the cloth.  “You think I care about any of that?  Okay, yes, maybe there’s a part of me that takes some pride in it, but don’t pretend you’re so innocent.  You thrilled to see the darkness in me, you _encouraged_ it.  Whatever you’re seeing in me now, you carry some of the blame for fostering it.  And you seem to forget that this is an even trade.  Long John Silver might not be dead, but he won’t be sailing on a pirate ship or returning to reclaim his crown any time soon.  You took him down just as surely as I did Flint, and you…you get to _live_.  With me.  Is that…”  Silver swallows, his anger fleeing him and leaving something small and cold and scared in its place.  He wishes he could call the anger back.  “Am I so hollow a prize?”

Flint sighs.  “No.  I’m sorry.  Of course not.  I did choose this, remember?  I do accept this part of you, and believe me, I’m quite familiar with the darker, less appealing sides of love.  But I’m under no illusions about your nature.  You proved on that island that you know me, possibly better than anyone ever has.  I felt I should return the favour.”

Something in Silver’s chest jolts alarmingly at such a casual mention of love, but Silver ignores it, still trying in vain to recover his anger.  Flint leans forward and reaches out a hand, brushing back a curl from Silver’s forehead before coming to rest softly on his jaw.

“You, John Silver, with all your flaws and darkness, _are_ enough,” Flint says, in such a commanding voice that Silver has no choice but to believe him.  The words ring in his ears.  “I see you just as you see me, and I choose you.  Trust in that.”

It’s too much; Silver can’t maintain the eye contact.  He’s always been weak.  He looks down, and after a moment Flint’s hand falls from his face, but before it can slip away Silver reaches out to catch it.  He weaves their fingers together and squeezes hard, hoping Flint understands. 

Flint squeezes back.

Silver clears his throat and dips the rag once more into the bucket, doing his absolute best to pretend nothing happened.  Flint obligingly stays quiet, and when Silver dares to look back up at him, rag in hand, he’s leaned back against the chain and closed his eyes again.  He looks peaceful.

Silver’s still a churning mess internally, and he honestly doesn’t know how Flint can be so fucking _calm_ , but he doesn’t say anything.  He just focuses on the blood, and as gently as he can, he cleans all evidence that they had ever fought from Flint’s face.  It’s the closest he can come to erasing the past.

“I really was born in Bristol,” he says when he’s done and Flint’s face is looking cleaner than it has in months.  He’s too tired for this but he still feels unsettled from Flint’s accusations, and beneath that, a familiar fear.  He doesn’t want to be Long John Silver, the liar.  Not to Flint.  He wants to be…someone new.  The someone that Flint sees when he looks at him with that soft, painfully earnest gaze and calls him _the best of us_ , or recommends him a book.  He wants to prove he can be different.

“Sure,” Flint says without opening his eyes.  Silver’s anxiety spikes at the easy dismissal, and words come tumbling out of his mouth again without conscious approval.

“It’s not unremarkable, all right?” he blurts, and hates the edge of panic he can hear in his voice but is powerless to stop it.  “My past.  I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I keep lying, and I’m sorry I can’t promise I’ll stop.  I just…I don’t _want_ it to matter, can you understand that?  I don’t want all those terrible fucking horrors to have anything to do with who I am now, and if I tell you, then you’ll see them every time you look at me and I’ll never be able to escape them because I’ll never be able to escape you.  I don’t want to.  I’ve never had anything like this before, something that _matters_ , I’ve never been the same person for longer than it took to complete a con, and…I don’t want to go back to that.  I can’t risk this.”

Silver doesn’t know when his hands started shaking, but he notices that they are when Flint reaches out to steady them.  Flint’s hands are warm and rough with old scars and rope calluses, and his eyes are open again and intent.  He doesn’t say anything yet though, just watches Silver searchingly, and the silence prompts a few last words to scrape themselves out from Silver’s raw throat.

“I’ll try,” he says.  “If it really matters to you, I’ll try.  Don’t ask me about it and I won’t lie to you, I promise.  Whatever I tell you will be the truth.  Please say that’s enough.  It’s the best I can do.”

Flint hasn’t broken eye contact since Silver started speaking but he does now, leaning forward until their foreheads touch and closing his eyes.  One hand comes up to weave through Silver’s hair, and Silver slumps into the support like a collapsed marionette.  He takes a deep, slow breath and tries to let out his nerves on a shaky sigh.

“It’s enough,” Flint says, and the tight ball of anxiety in Silver’s chest unravels a bit more.  “Thank you.  You are…something I had never hoped for or expected to encounter in my ruin of a life after London.  I remain in awe of that, and that will not change no matter what does or does not lie in your past.  I will continue to defend what we have from all attacks, even when the threat comes from one of us.  But I would be grateful for whatever you’re able to tell me.  Surely there were some moments of levity in between the unending horrors?”

Silver huffs something that’s almost a laugh.  “A few,” he agrees.

“Then we’ll start there.”

“But not tonight,” Silver guesses hopefully.

Flint cracks one of his small, lopsided grins.  “No, definitely not tonight.”

The bed isn’t really big enough for two people.  It is bigger than Flint’s old bed on the _Walrus_ , certainly, but Silver’s pretty sure it would have been an actual physical impossibility to fit two people in that bed – not that he’s given it much thought, of course.  It’s not an impossible feat here, merely highly challenging even for people accustomed to cramped ship quarters, and requires a frustrating amount of negotiation and elbows in uncomfortable places.

When they’re finally settled, with only a few new bruises and Flint’s breath too-warm but comfortingly steady on the back of his neck, Silver takes a moment to marvel at how, despite the way it feels like they’ve been talking for hours, not a single word of it has been about their plans for the rest of their fucking lives.  It seems like rather a large oversight.

“Are you really going to try to turn an oar into a shovel?” he asks the empty cabin at large.  It doesn’t answer.  “You’d make a terrible fucking farmer.”

Flint’s voice is muffled in what is probably Silver’s hair, but Silver thinks he hears “not as terrible as you”, which, fair enough.

But still.  “Aren’t you supposed to be trying to convince me this is a _good_ idea?”

“I don’t need to convince you,” Flint mumbles, which is also, sadly, true.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Silver sighs.

And, finally, sleeps.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silver gets a pet. She is very angry and swears a lot. It's love at first sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part! Any feedback is adored <3

*

 

To be fair, they did _try_ farming.

“Cap’n!  Sails to starboard!”

Silver leans over the rail into the sea spray, squinting at the horizon but unsurprisingly unable to make out anything with his naked eye, only the bright blue sky meeting the bright blue sea.  His hair streams sideways in the wind, no longer long enough to need to be tied back, but still plenty long enough to satisfy his vanity.  After a month on land, he was more than happy to sacrifice some of his intimidating appearance for the occasional chance of a breeze on his neck.

“She a slaver?” Flint calls from above him, on the quarterdeck of the _Eleanor_.  He has a spyglass pressed to his eye, and his hair, once again long enough for a short half-ponytail, shines wetly from the spray.

“Can’t tell, cap’n!  But she’s the right size for it!”

“And in the right shipping lane for a journey from the Slave Coast back to Port Royal,” Flint mutters to himself, which Silver only hears because he’s clambered up to the quarterdeck himself and is hobbling over to Flint, the thump of his iron boot clearly announcing his arrival.

He still has the crutch, and uses it occasionally, but he often can’t spare the extra hand on the deck of a moving ship, and regardless of how deadly he’s become with it, he knows it makes him look weaker.  The iron boot is part of the legend of Long John Silver, and the dread people feel when they notice it is unmistakable.  And they’ve made some improvements.  When they’d decided to go back to sea, Flint had commissioned it from a proper blacksmith with specific instructions to design it in such a way that it wouldn’t put pressure on the stump directly.  The result is a sort of cage that presses mostly on the widest part of his thigh, leaving space for air to flow around the stump itself.  With padding, it’s almost comfortable.

“What do you think, Captain?” Silver asks in a low voice.  “Shall we try it?”

Flint lowers the spyglass and shares a look of wordless communication with Silver.  Silver shrugs and gives a small nod.  _Why not?_

“Tack to starboard!” Flint shouts.  “We’re giving chase!”

A loud cheer rises from the crew on the lower decks, and Silver smiles at how they rush to follow their captain’s orders.  The _Eleanor_ is just a small sloop, but speedy, and she more than makes up for her size with the enthusiasm of her unusual crew and the skill of her captain. 

“Fuck’s goin’ on?” comes a grumble from behind them.  Silver turns to see the second grumpiest redhead on their ship, hat askew and eyes squinting blearily into the bright sunlight.  She must have been trying to sleep.

“You said you wanted some action, didn’t you?” Silver says with a winning grin.  “Well, now’s your chance.”

Anne seems to brighten, tipping her hat back to see Silver better.  “We gonna have a fight?”

“Not if everything goes smooth,” rumbles Flint from the rail.  Anne scowls at him.  Silver reaches out to give Anne a reassuring shoulder pat but thinks better of it at the last second, turning it into an awkward wave that he hopes she doesn’t notice.

“Don’t listen to him,” Silver says cheerily, though judging by the way Anne is glaring at him now too, it’s a lost cause.  “Even if you don’t get to stab anyone, I’m sure we can find you someone to beat up.”

Anne gives him a look that says she’d be happy to beat _him_ up if he fails to produce any other options, and then squints at the horizon, where the other ship is still nowhere to be seen.

“Goin’ to have a look,” she grunts, and disappears up into the rigging.  Silver watches her graceful progress with awe and a small amount of envy, even though he knows very well he was never able to do anything nearly that impressive even when he had both legs, and wouldn’t have wanted to. 

He brushes off the feeling with the ease of much practice, and joins Flint at the quarterdeck rail.

“I think I’ve missed having someone truly homicidal on board,” he confides to Flint, resting his elbows on the rail beside his captain’s and pressing their shoulders together.  “Besides you, I mean.  Our crew these days is altogether too reasonable.”

“It’s going to be up to you to keep her from murdering that captain,” Flint reminds him.

Silver pretends to think about that for a minute.  “Well.  We did promise her some excitement.”

Flint turns to glare at him.  “No.  Killing.  If they surrender, and _if_ she’s a slaver, we take only their gold and slaves.  You start massacring defenseless crews, you might as well burn that flag you’re so proud of right now, for all the good it’ll do you.”

Silver rolls his eyes.  “I _know,_ James.  Do try to remember you’re talking to the person who helped you come up with this scheme in the first place.  I swear, the more orders you give the more tragically you misplace your sense of humour.  It’s quite unattractive.”

Flint rolls his eyes back at him (and yes, okay, that last was a lie, Silver had found Flint dazzling even back in that fight with Singleton), but he also doesn’t try to defend himself so Silver assumes his point is taken.  They lean in companionable silence for a time, watching the water flash by as a tiny speck of white on the horizon grows larger.

They’d lasted almost six months as farmers.  For the first five months, things were surprisingly hopeful.  They didn’t know the first thing about growing crops, of course, and Silver caught Flint staring longingly out at the horizon at least once a day, but they were managing.  Between Flint’s stubborn determination and Silver’s gregarious charm, they were able to squeeze enough information and tips out of the locals and put them into practice well enough that things were starting to grow.  The land itself with its little cottage they’d gotten cheaply enough from an aging couple looking to spend their last days somewhere more relaxing and less infested with deadly diseases and stinging insects than the Caribbean.  Although of course price was hardly an issue since, to Silver’s complete lack of surprise, it turned out Flint had secretly squirreled away quite a comfortable amount of the Urca gold before burying it for the second time.  But it wouldn’t do to draw too much attention.

If someone had told Silver when he first started this catastrophic, miraculous adventure, that he’d eventually find himself spending the Urca gold to buy a farm with the rage-filled pirate captain who made him fear for his life on a daily basis but also secretly loved books, and fully intending to stay there for as long as he could, he’d have either laughed in their face or booked passage on the next boat out of the Caribbean.  And yet there they were.

For five months, their days passed in a peacefully boring routine.  During the day Flint mostly stayed on the farm, doing the important actual _work_ of farming and Silver, given his continued lack of enthusiasm for physical labour of any sort, did his best to find useful occupation for himself in the town.  He greatly improved his Spanish, located buyers for their produce, charmed his way into the best deals he could get for the supplies Flint told him they needed, generally made himself well-liked and well-known as a harmless, hapless city person turned farmer, and gathered information and news where he could.  At night, he occasionally prevailed upon Flint to allow a dinner guest or two, for appearances’ sake, but mostly it was just the two of them.  Flint would read, usually aloud, and Silver developed a habit of whittling sticks and, later, small blocks of wood while he listened.  One day Silver came home to find Flint sitting in his chair with a book and a raggedy, battle-scarred orange cat on his lap, and glaring at Silver as if daring him to comment.  Silver smiled widely but didn’t say a word, and the cat purred all through that night and joined them most nights after.  And every night, they went to bed together, and sometimes Silver told stories and sometimes he didn’t, but when he did they were always true.

It was peaceful.  It was quiet.  It was… _warm_ , in a way that Silver had always thought having a real family might feel like.  It was during those five months that Silver settled into the idea that Flint _was_ his family, that he was really allowed to keep this.  It was simultaneously the most terrifying and most comforting idea Silver had ever allowed himself to believe.

And then Silver got sick.

It wasn’t anything serious, merely a mild fever brought about by too much effort over too many consecutively sweltering days (it was taking both of them a while to adjust to life in the Caribbean without the saving grace of the sea breeze) but it was enough to leave Silver bedridden and unable to journey into town for a week.  Which meant that, eventually, Flint had to go into town.

Silver, vaguely feverish as he still was, is not entirely sure what the sequence of events was that led to them fleeing in the dead of night with nothing but some books, personal objects, and Flint’s angry orange tom cat, but he knows it involved Flint angering the local authorities in some way (or, more likely, them angering Flint and him killing one or more of them).  Flint is still cagey about the incident, no doubt embarrassed (and rightfully so, Silver thinks) about his inability to mix among average society for a mere week without being driven to homicide, but the end result was the understanding that Flint cannot be trusted to live peacefully in proximity to any kind of military authority.  Which poses certain challenges.

In retrospect, it had been obvious it wasn’t going to last.  The novelty had distracted them both for a time, and probably would have held them there a while longer, but Silver had deprived Flint of his purpose, and he knew his partner still felt that loss.  Silver himself would occasionally make the trek down to the coast on horseback to stare out at the sea, mostly for the relief of the cool wind off the water, but also for nostalgia and for something indescribable that called to him from the horizon.  Flint had never joined him on those journeys, and Silver had always felt that was a bad sign.  Whatever ineffable call he himself felt, he didn’t have the sea in his blood like Flint did.  He hadn’t spent his whole adult life on those waters, earning his livelihood by waging war for some cause or another and becoming their master.  Silver had been content on the farm, but he’d known that Flint could only battle with the beets and eggplants for so long.  He would always be drawn back to the sea, and that was fine, because Silver would always be drawn to Flint, no matter where they ended up.

And even if they had stayed, it probably would’ve been only a matter of time before Silver encountered an opportunity to good to pass up and got them both in even more trouble than Flint’s massacre of a handful of soldiers.  It truly was a sickness.

“Cap’n!  She’s British!”

“Hold course,” Flint calls from Silver’s side.  He’s quiet for a while longer, watching intently through his spyglass as they get closer to the other ship.  Silver knows he’s tracking the other crew’s behaviour as best he can, carefully calculating the distance.  And then—

“Raise the black!” Flint roars.

They didn’t start out intending to go back to piracy.  At least, Silver didn’t.  Flint might have, the bastard. 

Fresh from the farm and newly fugitives, they’d headed back to Nassau in disguise.  Jack had been predictably overjoyed to see them again so soon, but with an expert mix of threats and charm, they’d convinced him to let them sign on to a merchant shipping contract.  They’d dipped into the Urca gold, bought a small sloop and renamed her the _Eleanor_ , which Jack also _greatly_ approved of, scraped together a skeleton crew of ne’er-do-wells from around the harbour, including a very bored Anne, and were sailing again.

To Flint’s credit, he at least pretended to be a lawful merchant captain for their first few voyages.  But it wasn’t until they had a few prizes under their belts and had started to accumulate the loyal, enthusiastic crew they have now, that Flint started to look truly comfortable in his own skin in a way that Silver isn’t sure he had ever seen in his captain, even in the days before Gates’ death.  Silver doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of seeing it, the way Flint still lights up with that familiar fiery conviction but without the desperate, pained edge that always used to come with it.

“They’ve surrendered!”  The call rises up from a few crew members in unison, and cheers roll over the decks in jubilant waves.  Their bosun, Kali, trots up the stairs to Flint.

“Permission to ready boarding crews, sir?” she asks, a spark of glee in her eyes.  Kali had been a slave when they’d found her on one of their prizes, like most of their crew now.  She’d taken to the work of sailing life more easily than many of the ex-slaves who wanted to join the crew of the _Eleanor_ , but her true joy is in taking prizes and making the slaver captains squirm.  She’s tall and lean, whipcord strong, with bright, intelligent eyes, and she’s been taking fighting tips from Anne judging from the lethal way Silver had seen her handle herself in her last fight. 

Flint gives her a quelling look.  “Try not to give the captain a heart attack this time.”

“Is it my fault if the English insist on letting frail old men sail?” she just tosses back, not intimidated in the slightest.  It’s a sign of just how much progress they’ve made, Silver thinks, that Flint merely frowns at her instead of immediately having her tossed overboard for insubordination.    

“I hope you’re not implying anything about our own dear captain there,” Silver says with his own shit-eating grin.  Kali grins back at him.

“I’ll show you frail,” Flint growls, his tone clearly promising a great many things. 

“But then who’ll head the boarding party?” Silver leans in for a very quick and ill-advised kiss, and then shuffles off to the stairs.  “After you, Kali!”

Since the English ship appears to be cooperating, it falls to Silver to do the negotiating with the captain.  Although Silver is functionally once again Flint’s quartermaster, the ship and its cargo are technically owned by Captain John Silver, seeing as James Flint is supposed to be quite dead.  It could have been a source of endless tension and confusion, but instead they share the command as naturally as breathing, and Silver doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being stunned at Flint’s effortless generosity when it comes to people he loves.  In battle and while at sea generally, Flint remains the unquestionable authority, but onshore Silver assumes full ownership and handles the merchant business.  They’d found too that prize crews tend to respond better to Silver; even though Long John Silver isn’t the topic of constant nervous whispering that he used to be, the reputation of the one-legged pirate with the devil’s grin still carries enough weight to command obedience without having to prove himself anew in bloody battle every time, as Flint would need to.  And as Silver keeps reminding him, he’s getting too old for that.

Clambering over to the other ship with a metal leg still requires quite a bit of effort, and more than one helping hand from Kali, but the gasps from the prize crew when he thumps down over the rail makes it well worth it.  She is a slaver, as it turns out, but one that had been unlucky with fever and lost easily half its crew and cargo in the journey.  There aren’t many slaves left to rescue, but Silver directs Kali down to find what she can find, while Anne beelines for the captain’s cabin to loot it for gold and sea charts and whatever other useful things catch her eye.  Silver stays on the deck, keeping an eye on the captain and crew, even though most of them look far too overworked and defeated to pose any real threat.

It takes him a few minutes to notice the screaming.

It’s not a human scream – that’s quite obvious, but Silver’s not sure _what_ it is.  It’s very loud, and it sounds like it’s coming from below decks.  He turns to the beleaguered captain, but before he can say anything, the man is already sighing.

“Bring it up,” he orders one of his men, and when Silver gives him a sharp look of warning at the presumption, he adds, “You want to see it, don’t you?”

“Go with him,” Silver orders one of his own men, and watches them disappear into the bowels of the slave ship together.  The screaming pauses after a moment, as if taking a breath, and then renews at a heightened, crazed pitch.

Silver finally places the sound.  It’s a bird.

Sure enough, the two men return hauling a small wire cage.  The bird inside quiets once it hits the open air, examining the strangers with calculating interest.  It’s a big bird, far too big for the tiny cage, but not as big as the rainbow macaws Silver has seen on other ships.  It’s mostly green, save for its head which looks like it’s had a collision with an artist’s palette.  It has a splash of bright red on its forehead above its intimidatingly oversized beak, a smear of yellow under its eye, and to top it all off a curve of soft blue like the morning sea running over the top of its head and fading down to the back of its neck.  The feathers there are raised slightly in alarm, and its claws dig in to the rough stick of wood jammed through the bars of its cage for use as a perch.

Silver wrinkles his nose as it gets closer.  The bottom of the cage is white with guano and it _reeks_.

Still, the bird is beautiful, and Silver has nothing else to do for the moment but wait.  The men drop the cage on the deck, uncaring about the bird’s angry squawk, and Silver hobbles over.  Awkwardly, he crouches down on one knee to see it better, and the bird seems to perk up at the attention.  It huddles up to the side of the cage, fluffing its feathers and narrowing its one visible eye at Silver as if preparing to impart a great secret.

Silver leans closer.

“PIECES OF EIGHT!” the bird screams right in his ear, loud enough to raise the dead and angry enough to send them to war.  Silver reels back, rubbing his ringing ear, but can’t help the completely manic grin blooming across his face.

“Take ‘er if you want ‘er,” grumbles a nearby sailor, kneeling on the deck with his hands clasped harmlessly behind his neck and glaring at the bird out of the corner of his eye.  “Damn creature’s devil possessed.  Near took my finger off and screams like a banshee if you so much as lookit ‘er the wrong way.  Wouldn’t’ve bought ‘er in the first place ‘cept idiot Ted over there were convinced she knew where was some buried treasure.”

“Is that so,” Silver says, feeling his grin stretch even wider.  “Well it’s your lucky day, my good man.  I do believe I shall.”

Kali smiles at him indulgently when she returns to see him standing with one protective hand on the bird’s cage, so he enlists her help to carry it over to the _Eleanor_.  Silver himself has to stay on the prize ship the longest, monitoring the captain and crew until the last of the plundering is over, so when he finally makes it back himself he finds Flint has already made the bird’s acquaintance and they’re eyeing each other with about equal suspicion and hostility.

Something about the sight inexplicably warms Silver. 

“What is this,” Flint growls when he sees him.  The crew rush busily around them recalling the grappling hooks and making the ship ready to sail, and the bird watches them with one wary eye while keeping the other fixed on Flint.  Anne is nowhere to be seen, and Kali is probably below decks helping their new passengers get settled.

“My new bird,” Silver says cheerfully.  “It’s only fair that I have a pet too, don’t you think?

Flint narrows his eyes.  “You have Charles.”

“What? Charles is _your_ cat, not mine.  He hates me.”

“You were the one who insisted on taking him from the farm and bringing him on this ship, you were the one who _named_ him—”

“He _hates_ me, he’s not mine,” Silver interrupts, which is perhaps a little unfair – Charles seems to hate everyone except Flint but he does mostly tolerate Silver, which is more than could be said for his namesake.  But it’s hardly Silver’s fault that he was the first one to say the name out loud that he knew they’d both been thinking.  As a bonus, mentioning the cat always seems to temper Jack’s annoyance with them somewhat.  “Captain Flint here, on the other hand…”

When the expected explosion of outrage doesn’t come, Silver is forced to look up from the bird.  Flint is staring at him in disbelief, apparently too outraged to even speak, his mouth hanging open a bit.

Silver waits.

“You can’t be serious,” Flint manages eventually, in a growl that tells Silver in no uncertain terms that he is risking life and limb with any answer other than ‘no’.

Silver, of course, has long since developed almost full immunity to Flint’s threats.

“I think it’s high time someone paid tribute to the dearly departed Captain Flint, don’t you?” he asks with a bright smile.  “It’s the least I can do as his ever loyal partner, to preserve his memory.  Besides, I’ve heard tell that some of the Urca gold is still out there, just waiting to be found, and the good old Captain is the only one who knows where to find it.”

“Pieces of eight,” the bird agrees, at a more tolerable volume this time but still sounding impressively pissed off about it.

Silver thinks he’s in love.

“Did you fucking teach him that?”

“Excuse you, Captain.  Flint here is a lady.  You should watch your language.”  Silver gives that a moment to sink in, and then adds with a proud grin, “And she learned that one all on her own.”

“Fuck is that thing doing here?” a gritty female voice says from somewhere above them, and then Anne drops down from the rigging to land gracefully behind the bird.  The bird squawks, badly startled, puffing up all her feathers and almost falling off her stick.  When she’s composed herself somewhat, she whirls on Anne and looks her straight in the eye.

“FUCK YOU!” the bird screams, at a volume that no doubt carries easily across to the entire crew of the prize ship, and probably to the shore of the closest island.  Anne stares, stunned.

“I think it’s a little late to preserve her delicate sensibilities,” Flint drawls.

Anne’s face is doing something strange.  Silver watches, fascinated, as slowly, she appears to… _smile_.

“Nice bird, Silver,” she says.  “You ever need someone to watch her, you let me know.”  And with that startling remark, she trots off to do…whatever ship business she feels like doing.

“Charles is _our_ cat,” Flint grumbles into the relative quiet.

Silver grins so wide his face hurts.  He hobbles over to Flint and presses against his side, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting his head on his shoulder.  Flint sighs, and Silver doesn’t have to look to see the resigned expression on his face, but a warm arm still settles around Silver regardless.

“Of course, dear,” Silver murmurs into Flint’s ear, and laughs at the way the fingers on his hip dig in threateningly but Flint still makes no move to let him go.  “Whatever you say.”

The bird babbles a long string of numbers.  They both stare.  She babbles a second string.

“You don’t think…”

“Nah.”

A beat of silence.

“Those are latitude and longitude coordinates,” Flint observes. 

“The other crew did say she was supposed to know where someone had buried treasure.”

“Pieces of eight,” the bird reminds them.

“Wouldn’t hurt to check it out, surely?” Silver says, hopefully.  Something about the promise of gold still calls to him.

“I suppose not.  But I’m keeping my eye on you this time.”

“Oh come on, I haven’t stolen anything from you in _years_.”

“Fuckin’ thief,” the bird growls.  Silver’s stunned speechless, but Flint starts to grin.

“This bird isn’t so bad after all,” he decides.  “You have good taste, Silver.”

“Of course _you_ would say that,” Silver grumbles.  But Flint’s still warm at his side, and there’s the promise of gold or at least an adventure on the horizon, their crew is in good spirits and the sea breeze is cool on his face.  Silver is happy, and life is good.

He doesn’t quite know how the little shit of a thief that he was managed to end up with a life like this, but he wouldn’t change a thing.

 

*

 

The bird does in fact lead them to treasure.

The coordinates take them to a tiny spit of land, but after some coordinated searching they unearth a small chest.  It’s nowhere close to the stockpile on Skeleton Island, of course, but it’s still more money than most of their crewmembers have ever seen.  They’re ecstatic as Flint and Silver hand out their shares, and loyalty shines from their eyes tenfold.  They’ve always been an odd crew, in general more interested in Flint’s mission of freeing slaves than in riches and plunder and thus vastly less prone to mutiny, but from the look in their eyes now it’s obvious they would follow Flint and Silver to hell and back.

They save a portion of the haul for Madi, and Silver stays aboard the _Eleanor_ as usual when Flint goes ashore to deliver it.  Much of the crew have family and friends on the Maroon Island, so it’s a good excuse for Silver to stay behind and mind the ship, but the truth is that he’s still avoiding Madi.  They have seen each other a few times since…what he did, and she was even civil, but they haven’t spoken since Flint had started his latest crusade.  He’s afraid to see what she thinks of it – he knows it must seem to her like some misguided attempt to earn her forgiveness, insulting scraps in light of what she believes they could have accomplished together.  And it would be even worse, he thinks, if she _does_ appreciate it, because the truth was Silver had nothing to do with it at all; the idea had been all Flint’s.  It was the great mistake she and Flint shared, Silver thinks, that they had both been so convinced of Silver’s inherent goodness, blind to the truth that he was nothing but a mirror, a hollow thing able to do nothing more than reflect their own nobility back at them.  At least Flint seems to see more to the truth of him now, although he also doesn’t seem to mind as much as Silver thinks he should.

With time and patience, Flinty the bird, just like Flint the man, comes around.  They get her a new, much bigger cage, and a standing perch in the captain’s cabin where she spends much of her time.  Her piercing screams become mostly a thing of the past, and while she always has her moods and shows a strong preference for the _Eleanor’s_ command team, she grows to tolerate most of the crew as well.  Silver cobbles together a primitive sort of falconer’s jesses for her so that she can travel almost anywhere with him, until rarely is Long John Silver spotted anywhere without one Captain or the other.  She’s enthralled by Silver’s stories, and while Flint mocks him and claims to be relieved to no longer be the sole victim of his babbling, the bird is equally enthralled when Flint speaks, and is quick to learn that with enough ear nibbling, she can convince the fearsome pirate captain to read aloud to them most nights. Every time they go ashore, Silver buys her treats of fresh fruit and vegetables, and Flint collects bits of wood and brightly coloured children’s toys, claiming he’s just trying to distract her from eating his books even though Silver has never seen her go near them.  She learns to quote from the classics, and to swear more creatively than most human pirates, but her favourite thing is to shout _Fire!_ at the top of her lungs in such a disturbingly accurate imitation of Flint that Silver thinks it’s only a matter of time before someone actually obeys her. 

Anne eventually leaves them, when Jack finally decides that Nassau is stable enough to manage without him for a while and acquires them their own ship.  She complains about it whenever they see each other – Jack is too cautious about going after prizes, too scared of alerting the wrong people, won’t let her have even a little bit of fun when boarding.  But it’s also clear she would never let him sail alone, so Silver just smiles and shows off Flinty’s latest creative profanity.  She still joins up with them occasionally, when Jack gets caught up for too long in Nassau’s business.

And then one day, one of their crew comes to Silver with the news that someone claiming to be Billy _fucking_ Bones has a map to Captain Flint’s treasure.

Over the years, they’ve had cause to go back to the island a few times to dip into the money, so it’s not completely outside the realm of possibility that one of their crew had at some point indiscreetly spoken of Skeleton Island and its fabled treasure.  But they had always done the actual retrieving entirely alone, so Silver is almost certain this “Billy Bones” has no idea where the precise location is.

…Almost.

So they go to Skeleton Island.  Or, well, Silver goes, because Flint thinks the whole thing is far too ridiculous to bother with, and besides, he has important supplies to deliver to Maroon Island and he can’t just go haring off at every rumour that strikes Silver’s fancy.  Apparently.  So Silver goes, with a few trustworthy crewmembers and Flint the bird, intending to dig up the treasure and move it, just in case.

They are, of course, not the first ones there, because Silver’s always right and Flint really should listen to him more.  None of them are Billy, but they do have a map.  Silver spends a few truly aggravating days with them on the island, telling quite a staggering amount of lies even for him, while he attempts to get to the treasure first and escape without leaving anyone the wiser.  This succeeds partially; he is sailing away with the treasure and a handful of survivors and still trying to figure out how to give them the slip when the _Eleanor_ appears on the horizon.

Flint’s rage, when he reaches them, is a sight to behold, and Silver doesn’t think he’s ever been quite so glad to see his murderous snarl.  The horror and disbelief in his fellow thieves’ faces is incredibly satisfying, but not as satisfying as curling up with Flint later and unloading the whole sordid story while he laughs.

They don’t share a single piece of eight with the thieves, of course.  Instead they leave it with Madi, with the understanding that she may use it when she needs to – the gold is beginning to seem cursed, but she has always been the least corruptible of them all.

And maybe, one day, if there is still enough left and they are still alive to be old men, then maybe they might use the last of it to buy a little house on a coast where they can watch the sea and rest, and where there will be love and maybe even peace.

Until then, the freedom of the open seas still calls, and they will answer.

 


End file.
